


A Growth In the Family

by CaraLee



Series: Fantasy AU [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alfred Is Judging You, Bruce Has Issues, Gen, Not You Jason, The Idiot Who Desses Up Like A Rodent To Fight Crime, and some good ones too, some bad things, the batcave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaraLee/pseuds/CaraLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to the Cave of The Bat, Master Iason. I do hope you will make yourself at home. Just please take care that you do not wake the dragon, golems do tend to make such a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinis/gifts), [SisterWithoutAPsuedonym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterWithoutAPsuedonym/gifts).



> Because both Quinis and my sister asked for Iason's arrival at the Cave.  
> And any incarnation of Jason Todd is like any incarnation of Tony Stark. I censor them, rather heavily even, and it still turns out like it does.  
> ***  
> This takes place approximately a month after Theft and more than three weeks after Broken. Iason is 11, Dika is 16. Brutus is somewhere in the realm of 35 or so, and Alfredos is an ageless being of near-infinite wisdom and awesomeness.

Somehow, over the last month, as he helped The Bat capture the ring of thieves he has come to…not trust him. Not completely. But, despite himself, despite the fact that he _knows_ better he almost feels safe with him. That does not ease the fear that grips him as he fidgets behind the Knight on the horse, rather, it paradoxically increases it.

The Dark Knight is taking him _home._ His mind whirls between unease over his situation and curiosity over where The Bat lives. He’s noble, or he wouldn’t be able to afford the arms and armor he bears. He doesn’t live in the city either, they left the muted lights of Gotham City behind long ago and are headed into the hills, where many of Gotham’s nobility have their grand estates.

The Bat is not following the road, striking out across-country, over low stone walls and through so many woods and twisting turns that Iason, who has never before set foot outside the city walls, has become hopelessly lost.

It must be nearly an hour before they take a sharp turn and Iason can’t help but give a shout as the horse’s hooves leave the ground and they leap through a waterfall that appeared out of nowhere and into a cave. He shivers, the jump has left him damp which, combined with the chill of the air in the cave has him wishing for a warm fire and blankets. They leave the first cavern and enter an adjacent one that is even bigger than the first.  Iason gapes up at the black pit where the ceiling should be. It is like looking into the sky on a night without stars, there seems to be no end to the darkness above.

As they trot into a corner set up as an underground stable and The Bat lowers him from the horse’s back, he catches sight of many strange things. A suit of armor with weird devices attached, a great statue of a dragon so large that Iason cannot figure how it was transported down here, what looks like a penny-piece but is as long as three or four men are tall, a key as long as his arms can reach, inlaid with gems that twinkle in the low torchlight of the cavern. A great map covers nearly the entirety of one wall. Though he can’t read the stylistic script well, Iason can make out enough to know it is a map of the Islands, so large that there is a detailed map of the City within it.

"Welcome home, my lord."

Iason startles at the unexpected voice behind him and whirls into a crouch, staring warily up at the regal old man who frowns down at him before turning to The Bat who was striding towards an armor rack set in an alcove.

"And who is this, my lord."

He sounds very disapproving. Stands like it too, very stiff, with his hands folded behind him. As he turns to follow The Bat's progress across the cave Iason catches the dull glint of metal at his wrist, not quite hidden by his sleeve.

The wall is dry, he notes absently, he'd expected to have damp soaking through the back of his ragged tunic by now, as hard as he is pressed against the rough stone.

"That is Iason." The Bat says, his voice sounding different, less rough, more like a man than a monster from the Pit. "Iason, Alfredos. He is steward of the estate."He pulls the hood from his head and cape from his shoulders and Iason watches in mingled fascination and terror as he turns around. 

He is younger than Iason would have thought, though the lines on his face add some age it seems artificial, the result of experience rather than years. He is also familiar, Iason stares at the man's face, willing himself to remember where he's seen him before. 

Gradually, a memory comes back to him. It'd been a festival day and he'd been taking advantage of the crowds to cut a few purses. In the evening there had been speeches from some of the merchants and nobility. Including a speech made by...

His eyes widen and he stares at the man in front of him. "You're Lord Varius!"

The lord, last descendant of the ancient princes of Gotham and it's islands, nods, his face betraying no emotion. "I am." He continues removing his strange armor with some assistance from the steward, placing it upon the stand until he stands in only his undershirt and breeches. He drops a tapestry, emblazoned with a large bat, over the alcove, concealing it from view. 

Iason glances speculatively at the wall beside the bat tapestry, which is similarly covered, though the second hanging depicts a small, colorful bird in flight. It doesn't take any great intelligence to understand what has to be behind that one.

The old man clears his throat. "My lord?"

Lord Varius looks up from the dagger he is inspecting. "Take Iason upstairs and settle him in. I shall be up shortly."

The steward gives a little cough, still giving off an air of disapproval. "Of course, my lord. What room shall I give him?"

Varius stiffens and Iason tenses in response. He doesn't know why that is a touchy subject, but if the lord is going to get angry then he wants to be ready to get out of the way.

"The northern terrace chamber." Varius growls out, sounding almost exactly the way he does as The Batman.

"Yes, my Lord." The old man gives a low, dignified bow before turning towards a winding staircase that disappears upwards. Iason follows after one last glance at The Bat, Lord Varius, who never looks away from the papyrus he is writing upon. Iason tries to convince himself that the man's disregard doesn't hurt, that it is actually a _good_ thing, and hurries to catch up to Alfredos, following on his heels up the circular staircase for so long he thinks his legs might fall off. They finally come to a sudden stop in front of what appears to be a blank wall until the steward places the palm of his hand flat upon it. _Something_ in the air shivers, making Iason's skin crawl. Alfredos, his hand still laid upon the wall, offers Iason a bow like he's a lord or something himself. Can this night get any weirder?

"If you would." He gestures for Iason to walk forward. 

Iason gives him a sideways look. "There is a wall there."

He has to be imagining the twinkle in the old man's eye. "You will find, sir, that things are not always as they may seem." and again he motions towards the wall. 

Obviously he's off his nut, but Iason might as well humor him. He does work for the single most powerful man on the Islands after all. He resigns himself to looking stupid and takes a step forward, then another, his hand held out in front and going to bump into the wall any minute now- _fire and lighting!_ he jerks his hand back and stares wide-eyed at the wall that his hand had gone through like it wasn't even there. _Of course Varius has magic in his cave, he's rich enough._

"Sir." There is absolutely no emotion in the old man's tone, but Iason can't shake the feeling that he's being laughed at. He grits his teeth and walks through the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Quinis for the excellent suggestion on making Rex a golem! You really are a gem, putting up with me rambling at you for so long about this 'verse and giving feedback.  
> This will be three chapters, this first one, Iason's first impressions of "The Upstairs" this first night, and the events of the following morning. Which is where most of the angst comes in, because at this point in his life Dika is a walking slice of angst.  
> ***  
> If you feel like leaving a comment, pick a number between 1and 22 and I will go to my list of story ideas for this AU and write that one!  
> And a general service announcement, paper cuts are the personal brainchild of Satan. I have 10+ of them right now and am really hating my job.


	2. A Whole New World

Iason gave up trying to hide his staring after only a minute or so. He had never been anywhere so _spectacular_ before! It was a little dark and depressing but so was Gotham and the intricately woven rugs on the floors and hangings on the walls, the exotic fabrics and metals he could see in every corner made the palace (because there was no other word for such a grand villa) seem straight out of one of the legends his mother used to tell him and that he in turn would tell to the younger children on the streets.

If ever any of the Elven-kin had truly lived among men, surely they could not have wished for a richer dwelling place.

Alfredos led him from the room they had entered through the magical wall. (A room full of gilded furnishings and scrolls and _books._ Real books!) Through halls and up and down stairs before they came to a stop in front of another door which the old man unlocked with a key from the ring at his belt and opened, gesturing Iason to enter. "This shall be your room for the night." He said blandly. "There is water should you wish to wash and I shall fetch you in the morning for breakfast."

Iason swallowed and stepped into the room, freezing in place as the old man closed the door. Heart in his throat, he turned and tested the latch, unsure how to feel when it yielded beneath his hand, the door opening a crack without a sound. Drawing the door too again, he turned to inspect his...his what? Cell?

He forgot his fears for a moment as he gaped at the room. It was larger than his mother's hut had been! Forget the room, the _bed_ was probably larger than their hut! With cautious steps he approached the piece of furniture and gently ran a finger across the blanket. He had never felt anything so soft before. It felt like it would be warm too.

There was a small table beside it that held a large bowl and a pitcher with steam coming out of it. A quick glance proved it to contain water. Iason blinked in confusion  and looked back at the door. If this was an unused room then how-?

It was probably magic, he shrugged and carefully poured some of the water into the bowl, where the steam instantly lessened. When he touched the water it was a gentle warm temperature. Tentatively, he scrubbed at his hands in the bowl, the water swiftly turning a murky grey from the layers of grime that had coated his skin for as long as he could remember. By the time he had used all the water until it was so filthy that further attempts would be less than useless, he had only managed to get his face and hands somewhat clean. There was a reflective surface on one of the large pieces of furniture, a mirror? He studied himself in it. He hadn't known how pale his skin was. slowly, he lifted a hand and touched his face, watching the reflection do the same, only backwards. Were his eyes really that green? He'd always assumed they were more grey, like his mother's.

His finger drifted from his chin to his nose, tracing the light spots sprinkled across the bridge and onto his cheeks. Mapping out the shape of his face, he came to a halt at his hairline, fingering the dripping fringe falling over his eyes. He dared a glance at the bed and shuddered.

He was still so filthy, and the bed was so clean and big. He didn't want to ruin this...whatever it was by making them angry on the first night. He made a quick circuit around the room, noting that the door remained unlocked, and the window, though small, was large enough for him to squeeze through and opened above a fancy woven thing with plants growing up it, easy to climb down. That done, he dropped to the floor and wriggled under the bed, curling up in the corner where two stone walls met, his back safely set against them. Clutching the tattered fragments of his blanket-cloak about him, he drifted off to sleep, his last thought being that if this was how Lord Varius treated his slaves, then maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, the list of story ideas has moved from 1-22 to 1-31, excepting number 12 which has already been requested.  
> Pick a number any number!  
> ***  
> Also, I lied, this story will now have four chapters! I couldn't bear to leave Iason in uncertainty, so I have added one more chapter. It won't reassure him completely, but is a better ending than what I had planned I think.


	3. Goldie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally here!  
> WARNING: This chapter does contain rather vague allusions to Jason's heavily implied background as a child prostitute, with all the assumptions that come from that mindset.

Iason was awakened by the near silent opening of the door. He watched as a pair of bare feet padded into the room, hesitating as their owner must have noticed he was not in the bed. They did not stop long, going straight to the strange thing with the mirror on the door and opening it. The door closed and the feet turned towards the bed.

Iason held his breath and clenched his fingers around the hilt of his knife as they approached, making not a sound on the stone floor nor the strangely patterned rug before coming to a halt a pace or so from the bed. A pair of knees, covered in simple but whole and un-ragged trousers landed on the rug, followed by a pair of hands. Iason had just enough time to notice the cuff on the left wrist that meant they were a slave (And was that thing made out of _gold?)_ before a face was peering at him with the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other, Iason waiting for a cruel comment about the dirty street rat who didn’t even know how to use a bed. Instead, the older boy pulled back and gestured.

“Breakfast waits.” He hesitated, as if he was going to say something else, but remained silent, instead he rose to his feet, so that Iason could see nothing above the mid-calf hem of his trousers, and waited. For a moment, so did Iason, before he took a breath, forced his fingers to release their death grip, and wriggled out from under the bed, hurrying to stand as soon as he was clear of the frame and watching the other warily, his back to the wall and a clear path to the window.

He was a head or so taller than Iason, and some years older, not quite a man but not long before he was no a boy no more. His skin was brown, and it put him in mind of (though it was a few shades lighter than) the gypsies that sometimes danced and did tricks in the market-square for coins, dodging the guards and slave traders by disappearing into the shadows when you blinked. He did not look up from the floor, but Iason could not forget how blue his eyes were, a strange contrast. His clothes were finer than any Iason had seen except on the merchants whose shops lined the square and the surrounding streets. Not nearly as fine as a lord’s, but a far cry from Iason’s own rags. He was clean too, and Iason was suddenly very conscious of the dirt and soot that still caked his own body and garments. He hugged his blanket-cloak tighter.

“Master Varius has gone into the city.” Iason startled when the taller boy spoke, not looking away from him as he in turn kept his own eyes fixed upon the rug beneath their feet. He had a light accent that made his words sound just a little bit strange. “Alfredos is driving him. They will not return until sunset.” He hesitated again. “There is food for you on the table. Would you rather eat or bathe first, sir.”

Before Iason could manage to speak past his shock and anger at being called “sir” again, his stomach made itself known, reminding him that he had not eaten since some two hours before high noon the day before. The corner of the boy’s mouth twitched and he peeked up at Iason through his hair, which fell in night-black wisps in front of his face.

“Breakfast then.” The boy turned sharply and strode to the doorway where he held the door and looked back at Iason.

Once again, Iason followed.

***

Iason lagged a step or two behind as they descended a winding staircase that seemed even longer than the one up from the cave the night before. He eyed the back of his…guide, jailer’s, head, trying to figure out where the older boy fit in the house’s hierarchy and how that was likely to affect _him._

He was obviously somewhat important, his clothes had no holes or overly worn patches and his hair was as clean as the rest of him. It made Iason feel self-conscious and very glad he was behind him rather than in front. (Not that he would know _where_ to go if he were in front.) He was rather scrawny, but it wasn’t the same sunken thinness that Iason and so many others in Gotham had. The sort that came from never knowing when you would get your next meal.

His bare feet made it seem like he was lower ranked, but something about the way he moved made Iason think it was a choice. Whether his or Lord Varius’ remained to be seen, though if it was the lord’s…Iason paused half a step to get a better view and assess the older boy, considering the golden cuff. If _that_ is what Varius likes then why did he bring Iason back? There was something light and fluidly graceful in the way Goldie moved that made Iason feel even more awkward and his own near-silent cut-purse steps sound loud in his ears, even through the muffling influence of the rags wrapped around his feet.

With an internal sigh, Iason shrugged. Maybe the lord just wanted some variety. He considered his next step for a moment. On the one hand, antagonizing a member of the household when he was barely in the door was likely not a very intelligent idea. On the other, testing the boundaries before he got attached was. It all depended on how much influence Goldie wielded. Would it be worth testing him, or should Iason wait for the return of Lord Varius?

He still hadn’t decided when Goldie pushed open one last door and led Iason into what had to be a kitchen, though it was much larger than any _house_ he’d been in before he came here. “If you would sit there?” Goldie pointed Iason to a small wooden table set in an alcove. Iason sat, and watched as the older boy pulled a plate practically overflowing with food from a shelf above the fire and set it in front of him before stepping back. But after a quick assessment to verify that he didn’t look like he’d take it away again Iason wasn’t concerned with him anymore.

There was food.

He wolfed down the first several bites before forcing himself to slow down. He’d rather not throw all this up again, thank you very much. He had no idea what most of it even was, but there was some sort of bread that was far softer than the black bread he was used to. It was very good. He’d have been happy if that was all, but there was meat too. These people were rich enough that not only did they eat meat, they gave it to him too.

He ate until he thought he really would throw up and finally sat back and gave Goldie a cautious glance. The older boy was sitting, perched like an over-sized bird in a small window on the other side of the huge fireplace, watching Iason like a hawk. Iason tensed in response and shifted ever so slightly so that his back was more firmly wedged into the corner of the alcove. There was nowhere to run here, so digging in was the best option.

He eyed one of the smaller recesses between tables and fireplaces speculatively. If necessary, he could probably fit in there. He didn’t think Goldie’d be able to reach him, he was skinny, but not _that_ skinny. Not like Iason.

He could tell the older boy had noticed both his movement and his choice of escape route. When he dropped silently to the floor from his perch, Iason couldn’t help but flinch, though he covered it with a silent snarl. Goldie just took a few steps to the side so that Iason had a clear path to both the hidey-hole and the window he had been sitting it. Iason watched, wondering where the trap was.

Slowly, Goldie padded over and took the nearly empty plate, tipping the scraps out the window and placing the plate in a large basin. Iason watched, aghast at the waste of food.

“Pigs.”

He blinked and looked at Goldie confusedly.

“The pigpen is right beneath that window.” He explained, blank-faced.

Iason growled. No wonder he’d left that route open for Iason to “get away”. He’d known that if Iason tried it, he’d end up dropped into a blasted _pigpen!_ He leveled a glare at the other boy and was surprised and disturbed when he dropped his gaze back to the floor in response.

This place was weird. They’d let him stay in a fancy room (all by himself) and eat as much as he wanted. He just wanted the other shoe to drop already.

“If you would please to follow me, sir,” Goldie said quietly. “There is-”

Iason snapped. “Would you stop calling me sir!” he yelled, suddenly on his feet and less than a step from the taller boy so that he was staring up into his surprised face. “I don’t know what sort of sick joke you people are playing but I’ve had enough! So stop with this stupid…niceness!” He was snarling for real now and Goldie was gaping at him, a look of shock on his far too pretty face.

Iason turned the snarl into a sneer and jabbed his thumb at the ridiculous golden cuff. “So when do I get one of those? Do I get the gold to start off with or does that have to be _earned.”_ He crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, ready to run but taking a sort of perverse pleasure in the flush that covered Goldie’s face as the older boy glared back at him, finally showing some emotion.

“He doesn’t…You’re not…It’s not…” He took a deep breath and looked Iason straight in the eye. Iason took a step back from the intensity of his gaze. “Master Varius does not use slaves like that. The gold is because he has to keep up his reputation of extravagance, and you are not a slave.”

Iason blinked at him in disbelief. “I wasn’t born yesterday you know.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s not like it’d be the first time or anything. And what do you mean ‘I’m not a slave?’ What else would I be?”

A flash of…was that anger? Crossed Goldie’s face and Iason took half a step back before he could stop himself.

“You are freeborn, yes _”_

Iason shrugged. “Yeah.”

Goldie nodded. “Then you remain free. Master Varius does not make slaves of free men.” Iason knew his opinion of that (he hadn't forgotten the pigpen already, after all) showed on his face and Goldie sighed. “You will see, when he returns from the city.” He looked Iason up and down and a small smile crinkled the corners of his face. “I was going to suggest a bath, but perhaps we should see about cleaning you before you enter the baths. I do not think Alfredos would be pleased should we muck up the marble.”

Iason frowned. “Alfredos? The old steward?”

Goldie nodded, completely serious, leaning in ever so slightly, tipping on his toes in a way that should have been precarious but somehow looked perfectly balanced. “It doesn’t matter that Alfredos is a slave. He is the true lord of the House.” The smile widened to almost, but not quite, a grin. “We’ll grab some soaps from the baths and you can scrub off in the pond while I graze and water the horses.”

Iason nodded slowly. “Okay.” Goldie bounded off down a corridor and Iason raced after him to keep up. “I still don’t know your name, you know!” He called after the older boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes that were previously here have been relocated to the Series Notes section.


	4. At the End of the Day

Iason watches awkwardly as Dika rifles through the armful of clothing he’d brought into the room a moment before. He picks at the edge of the too-large tunic he wore, glad that Dika had taken the time to get another for himself. Iason isn’t really shy, but the pale, threading lines webbed across Dika’s back had been making him nervous. His eyes kept flicking back to where he knew the scars were and he knows Goldie knows but is ignoring it.

“Here. This should do it.” The older boy pulls a pair of breeches out of the pile and spreads it out beside the tunic he’d selected almost immediately upon rejoining Iason in the room. “These will work for now. Alfredos will remake most of these for you later, but for tonight, this will do.” He looks between Iason and the clothes and Iason can _see_ him fold back into the shut-down manner he’s been wavering in and out of all day. “Would you rather I stay or would you prefer to dress yourself, sir?”

Iason hops back a step, startled. “I can do it myself!” He glares and Goldie gives a slight bow.

“When you are ready, the fire is lit in the chamber three doors down. Dinner will be served there.”

Iason doesn’t relax until he’s backed out and the door closes behind him. He takes a deep breath and peers at the clothes Dika has put out. Both the tunic and breeches turn out to be slightly too large, but he rolls up the sleeves and makes sure the belt will hold. He’s managed with worse. He grimaces, worse like the tunic that had fallen to pieces when Goldie’d tried to wash it in the pool where he’d taken Iason and the horses.

It turns out that the great war-horse was named Nychterida. Iason is actually starting to like her. He can’t say the same for Desteredre, the much smaller, funny-faced, light-footed pony that Dika had pulled him up onto with neither saddle nor bridle. Nothing would ever be more terrifying than the first time he’d ridden through Gotham City behind The Bat, but dashing though the forest on the back of a horse controlled only by the words of someone who Iason is now convinced was completely mad? That came close.

He fidgets nervously with the hem of the tunic, his wonder at the fine fabric (far too brightly colored, no way to blend in with anything) nearly buried beneath the tension that has been building since the moment Dika had said they should begin to head back, as “Master Varius will be returning soon.” _Gods and monsters, he ain’t ready for this._

He gives the door a long, hard look before gritting his teeth and slipping out into the hall. The walk to the door Dika had specified seems to take forever and he keeps expecting someone to leap out of the shadows and throw him back out on the streets. He gulps some air past the lump of his throat and decides he might as well take advantage of his first time being unsupervised.

Before he reaches the room he has managed to pocket three trinkets and a dagger barely the length of his palm that had been part of a display. When they kick him out the baubles will keep him fed through the winter and maybe even into the next spring and the knife is small enough to be concealed easily. If they don’t kick him out, but Goldie proves to have been blowing smoke about the whole “once free, always free” thing, then he’ll be able to run anytime if it gets too bad, as long as he can figure a way to get out of the cuff and he’d always been good at cracking security charms. Which was what got him into this in the first place, breaking through the protections on The Bat’s thrice-cursed saddle.

The room with the fire lit is small, comparatively speaking. Hung with tapestries and containing only a large fireplace, two intricately carven chairs and a matching table no longer than his arm span. It is also empty, no one there but himself. Nervously, he creeps toward the fire, enjoying the warmth. It is summer, but nights on the Island can be cold, and he has gone without too often to not appreciate heat when it was there.

He crouches by the fire for several minutes before the door creaks open and he bolts to his feet. Lord Varius nods at him and gives a small smile before gesturing to the chairs. “Iason, please, sit.”

Cautiously, Iason perches on the edge of the chair, watching closely as Lord Varius settles into his own. Dealing with Varius isn’t like dealing with the old steward or even Dika. He is strong and one of the biggest men Iason has ever been around. He’s fast too, and always seems to know what Iason is thinking. With him, there is very little chance that Iason would be able to get away if he tries anything. And he is a lord. He is the blasted _prince_ of the Islands. (Not really, but really.) He could do anything he wants and nobody will care. (Not that anybody ever did anyway.)

Lord Varius takes a deep breath and seems to be about to speak when Alfredos and Dika come from behind one of the tapestries and begin laying food out on the table. Goldie takes a big bowl with steam coming from it and a towel and offers it to Lord Varius, who dips his hands in the bowl before wiping them on the towel. Through the whole ritual Goldie never looks up from the bowl and Varius himself stares straight ahead with a stony gaze.

Iason watches. Something is going on with them.

Goldie steps to the side so that he is in front of Iason now. With a cautious glance at Varius, Iason imitates him. These rich people are real big on being clean. He wonders if all lords are like that or if it is just Varius. Goldie steps back and disappears back behind the tapestry with the bowl as Alfredos also takes a step back, leaving the table between the chairs covered with food served on different fancy plates to the one Iason had eaten breakfast off of. He thinks these might actually be made of real silver.

Dika reappears with a jug and pours wine into the two cups, one for Varius and one for Iason and then moves to stand in the shadows beside Alfredos. Iason twitches a little. It’s weird having them stand there, silent and still. Present, but not really. It doesn’t seem to bother Lord Varius, who begins eating and motions for Iason to do the same.

In this one day, Iason has eaten more than he gets most weeks. First breakfast then this feast! He tries to keep an eye on Varius, but it is hard when all he really wants to do is eat.

Finally, he begins to slow down, using the crust of the second hunk of break Alfredos had given him to sop up the juices left after he’d finished the roasted meat. (These people have _so much meat_.) Varius had stopped eating some minute ago and is now just sitting there watching him. And the food is good, but Iason has about had it with people watching him. It’s truly creepy.

Alfredos and Dika have begun clearing the plates by the time Varius finally speaks. “Iason.” He says and pauses a moment, as if making sure that Iason is listening. “I’m sure you are wondering where I’ve been all day.” He pauses again and Iason realizes that he expects an answer so he shrugs. “I have been at the Council Building in the city.” Varius says. “Writing this.”

He pulls out a roll of papyrus from somewhere and places it on the table. “It is a formal notarization to the Council that I have adopted you as my son and heir.”

Distantly, Iason is aware of a crash as Goldie drops the jug he had been carrying and it smashes on the floor, spilling the remnants of the wine in the rushes and a rustling as Alfredos pushes him behind the tapestry and begins mopping up the mess. But mostly, all he can do is stare at Lord Varius, searching his face for any sign that this is a trick.

He can’t find it.

He knows it has to be there _but he can't find it._

Cautiously, he reaches for the document and Varius looks surprised. "You can read?"

Iason nods. "My mam taught me."

Now he looks interested. "Where did she learn?"

Iason shrugs and brushes his fingers over the seals stamped on the bottom of the sheet. One red and one black. It all looks real and he can't think why the lord would go to all this trouble and not mean it. Tentatively, he looks up at Lord Varius who is looking back with an expression that almost seems...hopeful. Iason feels a smile form on his own face.

"This is real? Really real?"

Varius leans forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. "It's real."

Iason sleeps in the bed that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming next...  
> Wielders of Shadow and Flame - Dika and Kori's story, a one-shot  
> Someone to Love, Somewhere to Go - After the murder of his father, Timotheus of the House of Drakon arrives at his new home.


End file.
